


Chubby Ferdie Drabbles

by chubbology



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:26:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28185363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubbology/pseuds/chubbology
Summary: A series of ficlets and concepts I think may be worth posting for those who like this kind of thing.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 44
Kudos: 89





	1. Aging

Ferdinand starts getting softer as he gets older. By his late twenties, he has full hips, a curving belly, shapely thighs, and a rather enormous ass—or so Hubert calls it. Ferdinand would have smacked him for saying so long before, but any time Hubert commented on his ass, Ferdinand never failed to blush, go speechless, and become suddenly, acutely aware of how heavy his backside had indeed become. How heavy he had become.

Being prime minister had involved a lot more fancy meals, expensive chocolate favors, and sitting than he’d expected. Over the years, Ferdinand inevitably softened. At first, he merely gained weight in fits and starts, always sliding back to his old weight. But as stress increased, so did his appetite, and his girth surged within the span of a few moons—then a year later, it surged again without any viable reason at all, and Ferdinand found himself looking in the mirror every morning to see a decidedly overweight man.


	2. Bakery Visits

When Hubert rested a hand on the small of his back, Ferdinand ceased breathing and clenched his belly, making it quiver. As if from Hubert’s fingertips, stress and arousal immediately began coursing through his body—Ferdinand never felt more oversized than when Hubert touched him there. His flank felt twice as wide. Even though Hubert’s fingers were barely brushing his clothes, Ferdinand wondered if Hubert could feel the patch of fat that the small of his back now bulged with.

“What would you like?” Hubert asked him. They were staring at the dessert displays at the local bakery. The question was neutral—fond, even—but this accompanying touch somehow felt condescending. As if he were thinking: _Alright, my helplessly overweight darling, how would you like to fatten yourself even more today?_

Ferdinand knew he shouldn’t be here; Hubert shouldn’t have taken him. Did Hubert expect him to show restraint in this kind of environment? Surrounded by cakes and pastries and good smells and large, comfy chairs? Did Hubert think Ferdinand had been denying himself sweets lately, and now he was doing Ferdinand a kindness? Because Ferdinand had been denying himself precious little, and that’s why the seams on the pants he was wearing were stretching so very badly over his distressingly fat arse.


	3. Concerns

Ferdinand used to always frown upon those who gave into temptations with which he could not empathize. Skipping class to sleep? Hitting on a commoner? Hitting commoners? So many of his previous classmates and acquaintances at the monastery would rub him the wrong way due to their apparent lack of self control, but Ferdinand tried not to make it too obvious this was the case. Perhaps a bit of chiding or advice—if Hubert was frustrating him, maybe something not quite so well-intentioned.

It always confused him when people didn’t listen. Years later, he was beginning to understand why, in his own way.

“You’ve seemed a bit down lately, Ferdie,” Dorothea said to him after the usual international relations forum Edelgard held at the end of the week. They walked the back corridors alone, since their quarters both were on the other side of the palace. “You should join me dancing more often.”

“You know I wish I could—”

Dorothea poked his tummy and Ferdinand nearly squeaked as he sucked it in. He raised his hands, instinctually intending to button his coat to hide his softness until he remembered yet again, for the dozenth time that night in fact, that there was just too much softness to button over. Even if he sucked in.

“You’ve become quite the dignitary, haven’t you?” Dorothea’s eyes not-so-subtly flicking over him. Ferdinand consciously raised his chin to ensure it wasn’t doubling; he clasped his hands behind his back, swallowing as they settled awkwardly far on protruding buttocks. Not unkindly, Dorothea added, “You’re certainly beginning to look the part.”

Her smirk faded some. “Could it be that looking the way…well, the way I always imagined you would…bothers you a bit?”

There was a strange gentleness to her tone that Ferdinand wasn’t used to hearing when she spoke to him. He wasn’t sure whether or not to be worried, and his thoughts on her gentleness out-prioritized whatever she was saying. “I beg your pardon. It’s quite late. I’m afraid I’m not thinking clearly enough to understand what you’re saying.”

She looks uneasy. “Um. I’m just saying I hope you feel better.”

“Me?” Ferdinand smiled to reassure her. “I’m just a little fatigued!”

Dorothea sighed and turned around, and to Ferdinand’s surprise, started walking in the opposite direction. She waved a hand. “Goodnight, Ferdie.”

He blinked. “But. Don’t you—”

“My magical senses tell me Her Highness wants company while she works late tonight.”

And she was off. Ferdinand watched her go, suddenly debating whether to stay up and work more as well. But he had worked late every night for countless days now, and he…

Ferdinand took a step back toward his office, which was along the same corridor as Edelgard’s much larger, more lavish one. But he stopped when he remembered what happened around midnight: a servant would knock at his door. He would ask her to come in. She would look at him with big eyes and hold out a tray of pastries and sweets and tell him the kitchen was so very grateful for his hard work so late into the evening. She would set the tray down and scuttle away before he could say much of anything. Then he would be alone. To choose between busywork, his thoughts, and treats.

He turned sharply back in the direction of his quarters, walking briskly. Briskly enough to notice the warm friction of his pants rubbing together between this upper thighs, quickly and firmly again and again. Irritating; he’d expected his thighs to thicken a bit with the way he’d been eating lately, and they had—but then they _kept_ thickening, swelled wider and rounder, started to press together at all hours whether he standing or sitting, moving or still. It was absurd.

He began down a case of marble spiral steps and became acutely aware of the distinct quivers his belly made underneath his close-fitting white shirt. Ferdinand sighed, knowing too well that all of this would get worse if he didn’t start behaving himself around food. Midnight and otherwise. Pausing on a step halfway, he tried again to suck in his soft belly in order to get his coat to button properly. With concerted effort, Ferdinand succeeded on his second try. He let out a rush of breath and began to descend the stairs again, trying not to mind the faint sensation of suffocation and enjoy the lack of shameful quivering.

He ignored the question that arose in his mind concerning which was more embarrassing: that he didn’t fit in his clothes or that he had tried anyway.

Back in his quarters, Ferdinand was quick to change into his sleeping garments. He thought about about the next day’s work—or tried to—as he unclothed himself. The belly on him, happily loosed from its double confines with a slight bouncing slouch, did not feel like him. The overstuffed thighs below, which fought against the removal of his pants as if afraid of never fitting back in again, did not feel like him.

Ferdinand blinked and perhaps understood what Dorothea had been trying to say.

Even his own hands, doing all the swift tugging and unbuttoning, had become so distinctly chubby that Ferdinand blushed just thinking about the last time a group of witnesses watched him sign with a flourish an important new decree. Everyone’s eyes on his much plusher, slightly dimpled hand. The Emperor’s eyes. Hubert’s.

In the adjacent washroom, Ferdinand pouted as he brushed his hair—cut to his nape, bangs shorter than they’d ever been. He still had thick hair, which was a relief considering his father’s had begun to thin when he was young. But Ferdinand was beginning to resemble him anyway, with his rounder cheeks and weaker chin. Ferdinand couldn’t help but pout when he was tired and uncomfortable and craving something sweet.

Yes, Dorothea was right. Ferdinand was unhappy. Unhappy with himself for coping so poorly with the changes in his life. Withdrawing from friends. Choosing his desk over exercise and the outdoors. Choosing to indulge “just this once” so many times that his every formal outfit had been let out thrice, his every undergarment was totally outgrown, and he could barely fit his arms into his newly tailored sleepwear because they had swelled so—Ferdinand tugged on the second sleeve with difficulty—so damned—tugged harder, and heard the sound of a faint rip— _fat_.

Ferdinand panted and sat heavily on the edge of his bed: arms straining in expensive, satin sleeves; soft, enlarged legs packed similarly tight. While the front of his shirt buttoned up properly, the oblong outlines of his protruding belly, breasts, and hips were nevertheless stark and crisp and mortifying. Ferdinand absently rubbed one of his breasts, fingers sinking easily as if into ample, sagging dough. Like the rest of him, they had been a bit sore lately, undoubtedly due to Ferdinand’s foray into eating his every emotion and waking up each morning the bigger for it. Goddess, his body had fattened with a swift fervency that matched his overeating. It was only fair, Ferdinand supposed. He tried not to care too much. This heaviness probably wouldn’t last forever.

The stretch marks all over him might, though.


	4. Cruise

They moved a ways from the ship, and Hubert slung his arm around to rest on Ferdinand’s hip as they looked at the map. Goddess, they had grown—Ferdinand’s hips, that is.

Hubert didn’t know what was affecting him most: the overindulgence, the weight gain, or Ferdinand’s embarrassment about both. He just couldn’t seem to stop himself at the buffets, and so Hubert was getting a front row seat to Ferdinand’s waistline ballooning out, round and soft, from all the the fancy deserts and self-serve ice creams and extra helpings and greasy sides.

“It’s just…my swim trunks,” Ferdinand said quietly, when Hubert pointed out an advertisement for island snorkeling. “They’re uncomfortable.”

Hubert rubbed his back in a comforting gesture that said _I know. I know you can’t get them on._

“Time to buy new ones them.” He gently patted the side of Ferdinand’s belly. “Something that will fit.”

Ferdinand’s chubbier cheeks flushed hot pink.


	5. College

They were roommates.

Hubert and Ferdinand are freshmen in college, but both are already so burnt out on school that they hardly care what classes they’re taking and what grades they get. Rather, they become more and more fixated on their unresolved…tension: Ferdinand has never outed himself to anyone, but if Hubert wanted to know his sexuality, Ferdinand wouldn’t hesitate to tell; Hubert, for his part, had never been particularly attracted to anyone, but lately he’s been masturbating to the reality that Ferdinand—college’s newest victim of the freshman fifteen—was growing too chubby to fit in his expensive, preppy clothes.

Ferdinand makes an effort to spend more time with Hubert, and Hubert finds himself unable to resist Ferdinand’s efforts. They go out to meals more often with every passing month. Hubert likes to hear him talk incessantly about all kinds of topics. To watch him obliviously overeat. They eventually realize they have more in common than they thought, becoming genuine friends.

By the end of second semester, Ferdinand is forced to acknowledge his weight. His clothes don’t fit. Classroom seats feel small. Every calculator on the internet points him to a truth that haunts him throughout his classes, his labs, his morning routine, his meals. _Overweight._

He looks in the mirror, at his plump everything, and he can’t deny it. _I’m overweight._

If he thought about it too intensely—maybe even inconspicuously cupping his belly under his desk during class, or pawing a over and over at his softened jaw and emerging second chin like he had an itch—his breathing became less regular. His thighs clenched together of their own will. His index finger somehow found it prudent to sneak under his shirt and poke at the weight he couldn’t stop gaining. _Just another guy,_ he might tell himself as he squirmed in his chair, _who got fat in college._ Holding his breath. _Really fat._ Dropping a chubby cheek into his hand, berating himself, trying to wrap his mind around the seriousness. _I’m so overweight. It’s bad._

Except he doesn’t feel bad. Trying to berate himself only made him feel like he needed to lock himself in his dorm room and push his hands down his tight, tight pants and rub one off. Sometimes Ferdinand closed his eyes at the back of the lecture hall, thinking about walking in on Hubert studying in their dorm at night and saying _Please Hubert. I’m getting so…_ And Hubert would turn and stand and give him a thoughtful once over as Ferdinand waited for judgement, not sucking it in, even letting his gut sag an inch out the bottom his shirt like it wanted to. _Hubert, I don’t know what to do._

While it’s true he can’t quite stop getting heavier, Ferdinand leads a normal life otherwise. His relationship with his friends are good. His parents still talk with him occasionally. He does well in class. He just…can’t find it in himself to diet. Not even his terrible crush on Hubert inspires him to slim down, because Hubert makes it clear with all the snacks and desserts he offers that he isn’t at all repulsed by Ferdinand’s extra thirty or so pounds.

Ferdinand always accepts the food, of course. Which only prompts Hubert to offer him more. Ferdinand feels helplessly conditioned like a dog to salivate and take, take, take, full or not.

Extra forty or so pounds.

He’s grateful Hubert pretends not to notice how Ferdinand’s bloated ass takes up so much more space than Hubert’s when they play video games side by side.

Fifty…

He dreams of Hubert catching him in the act of weighing himself. Catching him eating through a box of Twinkies (which Ferdinand had actually bought once on horny whim). Catching Ferdinand panting his way slowly up the residence hall stairs in an attempt at exercise.

Sixty extra pounds. Ferdinand’s cheap scale begins to creak.

He stresses about how he's supposed to take control of his weight when his relationship with Hubert revolves so much around food. When Hubert looks so satisfied and content when Ferdinand took him up on an offer to get greasy take out. When Hubert’s eyes get soft and shy and interested when Ferdinand couldn’t stop himself from eating past full again. How is Ferdinand supposed to feel motivated to lose over fifty pounds when Hubert keeps sneaking heated glances at his body as it was now? 

The only reason Ferdinand doesn't change clothes in the restroom to hide his heavy rolls and stretch marks is because Hubert fails so miserably to feign nonchalance, and it thrills Ferdinand’s pride like nothing else to imagine Hubert is hot and bothered. Even if a part of Ferdinand doesn't quite believe someone like Hubert could possibly be into a guy with a big, soft belly and full breasts and an ass that swelled off the sides of chairs, he lets his body jiggle a bit when he hikes up his pants, telling himself Hubert’s face was red because of it.

Hubert’s face is indeed red because of it.

*

Ferdinand and Hubert fall a little in love with their own version of role play. Ferdinand makes a show of feeling especially tired or sad or vulnerable, and Hubert plays the oblivious comforter, clueless as to how to support Ferdinand in any way but feeding him. They both pretend food is indeed the only way for Ferdinand to feel better.

It usually happens well into the evening, and the only light is the one at Hubert’s desk. Hubert will sit close to him, too close, and with all the purpose and efficiency of opening a bandaid, he’ll open a candy wrapper and press it gently into both of Ferdinand’s chubby, waiting hands. Watch Ferdinand take a bite, watch his supple second chin bloom forward. Put his hand tentatively on Ferdinand’s soft shoulder. Or his arm, his back. Rub his back.

Hubert sometimes feels bold enough to sit close enough to reach around his back and hold Ferdinand’s very round, very fat hip. He can’t resist pressing his thumb into Ferdinand’s malleable flesh, disguising the grope as a comforting rub. Ferdinand shivers, eyelids drooping, and after finishing his third candy bar, or forth cupcake, or half a tub of icing, he grabs Hubert’s other hand and places it on his belly. And Hubert keeps it there, almost reverently.

“Does it hurt?” he murmurs as Ferdinand bites into whatever’s next. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it’s unhealthy enough to make Ferdinand tingle with forbidden desire. Ferdinand nods, and so Hubert starts to rub his belly. It’s solid and soft and warm to the touch. Hubert is deeply satisfied to give it attention, to make Ferdinand wanted. Because Hubert _wants_.

Ferdinand eats and eats and chokes back a moan when Hubert encourages him to take bigger bites.

He says breathlessly around a full mouth, almost whining: “I’m so fat.”

They both have wet spots on their pants, although Ferdinand’s lap is concealed by pale belly that spills abundantly out of his shirt.


	6. Chest

Hubert rested his hands gently on Ferdinand’s chest, pressing his fingers into the thick pertness. Ferdinand blushed; it embarrassed him how much his breasts had grown in the past couple months. It was one thing for his belly to sag and his hips to widen, another for his ass to swell out to utter rotundity, but corpulent breasts? He was a man, for goddess’s sake; it was indecent for the fabric of his clothes to stretch so visibly over his softened chest, to contour so mercilessly its ample fullness, all but showing off how each breast now sagged slightly under its own weight.


	7. Doughnuts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Visual cue](https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-xAVqfc1j3cs/T7MiRmSeAKI/AAAAAAAAF-Q/T44D96t_p4g/s1600/IMAG0015.jpg)

Day 12 of Ferdinand Eating all the Leftover Doughnuts at the Bakery

When Ferdinand began to slow down on the sixth tray—chocolate covered creme-filled, said the label—Hubert set down his rag and cleaner and walked over, wrapping his arms around Ferdinand from behind. He was careful not to hold the tubby tummy too firmly. Ferdinand relaxed back against Hubert’s chest as he started into another doughnut. They stood in contented silence for a bit, Ferdinand chewing, Hubert nosing Ferdinand’s hair.

Day 48

Hubert watched, swallowing hard, as Ferdinand thoughtlessly pushed yet another doughnut into his mouth as he scrolled through on his phone with his other hand. Looking down as he was, his new double chin was on full display, a plump band of fat filling the space between chin and neck, completing the work that Ferdinand’s chubbier cheeks had started.

Hubert slowly took a few steps to the right, until he was looking at Ferdinand’s profile, and sucked in a breath. Ferdinand had _grown_. Compared to the relatively thin young man in the pictures on Hubert’s phone, the Ferdinand in front of him now looked as if someone had attached a hose to the small of his back and thrown on the facet of weight gain, dumping dozens of fatty pounds into him, the biggest reservoirs being his ass, then his belly, then his thighs…but his arms had rounded out too, and his breasts had plumped out. His face of course, had changed, and his back had transformed from a stiff, flat plane to a concave landscape of thick hips and budding rolls.

Day 160

But Hubert returned to the bakery twenty minutes later, having forgotten something he left behind. He was rendered speechless at the sight of Ferdinand sitting frog-style front of the open doughnut case, gripping an empty tray with one hand and a fat doughnut in the other, eating like he was starving. He belly hung between his parted thighs, just barely touching the newly cleaned floor, and his pants had ridden down so badly that his engorged buttocks surged several inches over the top of the waistband. His love handles and side-belly did so as well, like great gobs of sagging dough.

Hubert just watched as Ferdinand easily worked his way through the final, bottom rack of doughnut trays. He ate with stunning efficiency, yet a careful indulgence was obvious in every greedily large bite. His eyes stayed closed as he ate, only opening to reach for what was next. It almost looked as if he were in a trance state of feeding himself.


	8. Fat Camp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Btw I know nothing about fat camps. Assume this one is problematic and so, deserves to be thwarted.

When Ferdinand is young, he starts gaining weight and doesn’t really stop. Over the years he grows to be a tad tubby, then endearingly chubby, then awkwardly overweight, and then…heavy. Very heavy.

By the time he’s seventeen, his parents are so embarrassed by his obesity that they send him to a fat camp for a whole summer.

At camp, Ferdinand makes an immediate enemy of the pale, gangly, begrudgingly-handsome cook with his outspoken personality and brash attempts at impressing others.

Their animosity is just a thin ruse, however, to conceal their mutual attraction. Ferdinand has never been able to contain his crushes on sharp-witted boys with an air of mystery, and Hubert has never known peace from his dreams about beautiful, overfed people. Of course, he swears to himself his employment at a fat camp was utterly irrelevant to his proclivities. Less irrelevant and more unfortunate is the fact that first-time camper Ferdinand Aegir has both a breathtaking smile and a beachball ass that dwarfs many of the other campers’.

It doesn’t take long for Hubert’s contempt for Ferdinand to give way to curiosity. Curiosity into keen fascination. After all, Ferdinand is the only camper who—despite his often grating personality—seems blatantly uninterested in participating in the unofficial but undeniable competition to lose the most weight. He even asks for other campers’ desserts at meals, throwing the program’s intent to make him build resistance to temptation out the window.

It fascinates Hubert to watch the other campers freely give Ferdinand portions of their meals. Some did so with cruel smirks, as if enjoying Ferdinand’s weak will and eagerly anticipating the consequences; others did so with palpable relief to have their temptation taken away; still others seemed…as oddly interested as Hubert, watching Ferdinand overeat at a fat camp. Within the first week, it becomes a camp-wide pastime to feed Addicted Aegir as much as possible while the counselors weren’t looking.

It’s a successful sport. And Ferdinand never rejects anything, at meals or outside of them. His shirts ride up a bit higher on his body each day, despite all his tugging. He keeps briefly meeting Hubert’s eyes from across the dining hall. Hubert’s heart beats fast whenever Ferdinand approaches the dish window, holding the plates and cups and silverware of his table in his deeply dimpled hands. Hubert wonders if Ferdinand chooses to be the bus boy everyday or if his table think its fair payment for helping stuff the greediest (yet most polite) boy at camp to the gills.

It’s at the dish window that they talk to each other for the first time. Many times.

*

Made-up arguments and nonsensical grudges allow for Hubert and Ferdinand to confront (spend time with) each other far more than would be normal under the circumstances. As seemed to be the unspoken intention on both their parts, they become friends, and Hubert soon allows Ferdinand to sneak into the the kitchen with him…

For a tour, allegedly. But really for a late night snack. Which meant a full meal—a fifth meal of the day apparently, on top of the fourth meal of being snuck stolen desserts all day by other campers. Hubert wondered if the whole camp was getting a boner for seeing pretty-eyed Ferdinand happily fatten up more while the rest of them struggled.

Even the counselors didn’t push him hard during the more strenuous activities.

*

On the fourth consecutive night of Hubert losing sleep in favor of watching a fat redhead eat himself stupid, he started to become a bit stupid himself. Before, he was able to keep his cool; play off his voyeurism as sadism, a mundanely cruel desire to see Ferdinand ruin his chances of succeeding at camp. _Have you done this with other people?_ Ferdinand had asked the second night. Hubert would have shrugged mysteriously, but Ferdinand started into another tub of ice cream with such heady delight that Hubert temporarily forgot what the question was.

The answer was no, though. There was a difference between wanting a camper to fail because they were an asshole and wanting a camper to fail because they had a particularly adorable waddle that Hubert wanted to see become more pronounced. Hubert was just doing the universe a favor, helping Ferdinand stave off a drop in pant size and maybe go up one in the process.

Now, with darkening circles under his eyes, Hubert wasn’t sure how not to make it obvious what his intentions are, if they weren’t obvious already. He couldn’t stop staring at Ferdinand’s drooping belly. At his thick second chin. At his upper arms, which looked like nothing more than heavy sacks of fat, as if Ferdinand had never lifted anything heavier than five pounds in his life. If his performance on the field yesterday afternoon—which Hubert had watched from the back door of the cafeteria—implied as much. Ferdinand had been among the minority of fat kids who had struggled with the most basic light weight lifting, and while Hubert mostly felt indifference or pity for the others, he felt guilt and lust watching Ferdinand persevere with basic exercise to the point of shaking with every rep. _He’s so weak_ , Hubert thought indulgently, clenching his hand to keep it from wandering between his legs. There was no one nearby to see him of course, but he had principles. He…

The group of training beginners transitioned into squats. Hubert held his breath as Ferdinand tried to mimick the instructor: belly compressing on his trembling thighs, fat-laden arms held out in front of him with even more visible effort—Ferdinand stumbled backwards and fell on his enormous, soft ass, and for a moment, he looked rather helplessly beached. Lacking capability to save himself from forced exercise; equipped only to move in an environment of effortless drifting, sleeping, and daily overeating.

Hubert blinks and collects himself, focusing again on Ferdinand now, in the pantry, bored of the ice cream and looking for something else. His eyes are gleaming with energetic delight, even at nearly one in the morning. It’s like he’s in love…not with food, like a chef might be, or even a gourmand. Hubert thinks a more apt conclusion is that he’s in love with eating itself. Putting more into his body; watching a container become empty and knowing it was him who consumed it all. Made it disappear, maybe in the same way one might feel satisfied to cross an item off a list. Ferdinand’s incredible productivity shows in the heaviness of his back rolls, the space he takes up in the narrow hallway that is the camp pantry, fat belly bumping into boxes and fatter ass accidentally pressing against things when he turns or steps back to look up, momentarily engulfing the item in soft buttock.

Ferdinand asks a question that goes in one of Hubert’s ears and out the other. But he can guess what it was.

“Anything,” he mumbles from the doorway. His breathing is shallow as Ferdinand pulls on a cardboard box labeled brownies. Hubert knows that inside remain two trays of pre-cut brownie slices, pre-iced with a layer of fudge. Ferdinand puts a puffy arm inside the flaps and pulls out a tray. Hubert takes a step back, but Ferdinand merely tears the plastic film off right there in the pantry, pulls out a corner piece and stuffs most of it into his mouth for his first bite, eyes closing and shoulders sagging.

Hubert’s tense. There was a kind of beauty in watching a very fat boy embrace gluttony with such gentle inevitability. Ferdinand didn’t let crumbs get everywhere. He didn’t let fudge smear over his mouth. He didn’t palm his crotch while he ate, like Hubert desperately wanted to, watching him. Hubert wondered, why _hadn’t_ he done this with another camper before? Surely, more than half of everyone who was signed up to go here against their will would have taken a staff member up on an offer to glut themselves just one more time.

Ferdinand eats a third brownie, and a fourth, showing no signs of stopping. _Fatty_ , Hubert’s mind whispers in an almost tortured tone. Unlike with any other camper he’s ever encountered, Hubert wants to approach him, compliment him, watch Ferdinand blush like he tends to do around Hubert, more with every passing day. Step even closer, press his hand into the weighty jello of Ferdinand’s ass and let it sink into layers of ever-mounting obesity. Let his other hand cup Ferdinand’s sagging breast, gauge how full and heavy it was becoming, listen to Ferdinand half-swallow a mewl of pleasure at being touched.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand said, panting a little now, eyes a little glazed as he picked up a ninth (tenth?) block of brownie, block of…of pure fattener. Ferdinand was truly gonna to get fatter from eating all this. His clothes were gonna stretch worse. He was gonna step on the camp scale in two weeks and it was gonna give up and break a little.

Hubert swallowed. “What.”

Ferdinand goes for a bite as if by force of habit, then stops himself. “Do you…um. Just like watching? Or do you like…me.”

The last word is said so softly, so opposite of the loud confidence Ferdinand typically chose to exude around the campers no matter what.

He isn’t even looking Hubert in the eye. He looks desperate to keep eating. To eliminate thought with food. But he continues, “It’s fine if you just like watching. I just wanted to know. Um…” His ears are pink. Hubert has never seen him so uncertain. “I’m sure it’s obvious to you that I like when you watch.”

Liked to be watched gorging himself at night, in direct contrast to whole goal of the program he was in? Liked to be witnessed giving into his food cravings like a naughty boy? Or did he just crave the feeling of his pants getting tighter? His ass growing fatter?

“Why?” Hubert managed to ask. He felt like his eyes might be too wide. He needed to hear more. He stepped closer for real.

*

On the last night of camp, Hubert found a plastic bag, filled it with a sugary soda, a bin of thirty or so fresh-baked cookies, and three cans of whipped cream. Then he went back to his own cook’s cabin behind the camp dining hall, where Ferdinand sat on his bed, working through a bag of halloween candy. He had changed into older clothes that were size large—and so, two or three sizes too small on him. The plain blue t-shirt cinched his fat arms and didn’t quite cover his belly button, let alone the huge swell of fat beneath. The fabric sat bunched atop wide love handles and visibly stretched and strained around tits that had grown acutely prominent in the last week. He’d given up on pants altogether, wearing only striped boxers that conformed tight to his heavy thighs and ass, the stripe design warped from stretching. His belly almost blanketed his thighs, almost reaching his knees, spilling a bit off the sides.

Not everyone had lost weight at camp, but Ferdinand was certainly the only one to have put on over _twenty-five pounds_. (The other campers didn’t know the number, of course…but Hubert did. Oh, did Hubert know the number. Ferdinand kept him intimately updated on the Number.) Apparently, the program leaders were blaming it on everyone sneaking Ferdinand extra food at meals, or on food smuggled into his cabin, or on an undiagnosed metabolic condition. Ferdinand said that they all looked so worried whenever they did a weigh in—but all he could think about was either telling Hubert the new Number or arriving home over twenty pounds fatter than he left it—clothes not fitting, hungry for sweets, waddling worse than ever—and basking in his parents revulsion.

Hubert didn’t ask for an explanation for _that_.

To Hubert’s surprise, by the end of camp most of the campers ended up admiring Ferdinand to some degree; his lack of an outspoken or secret desire to be thin was unusual, to be sure. (Their admiration didn’t, however, cancel out their selfish relief at Ferdinand’s visible total failure when compared to their lesser failure.)

Ferdinand didn’t stand when Hubert came in and closed the cabin door quietly behind himself. He just looked directly to the plastic bag and unconsciously licked his lips.

They didn’t waste any time. They fumbled on the bed, and soon enough Ferdinand was sucking on the gushing tip of a whipped cream can and Hubert was circling his hands around Ferdinand’s exposed belly, getting hard from eyeing the fleck of cream on Ferdinand’s sagging second chin combined with the noise the can was making. Hubert scooped up two ample handfuls of heavy flesh from where it rested against massive thighs. He wasn’t sure if it was sexier how incredibly soft Ferdinand’s belly was, or how incredibly easy it jiggled. The twenty-five pounds of pure fat he had put on so fast? It was _all_ jiggle. Just glimpsing Ferdinand walk across the dining hall, the field, the kitchen, every step inducing Ferdinand’s excess to quiver subtly or violently depending—

As Hubert groped at fatty sides and felt his erection start to leak into his clothes, Ferdinand sucked in a sudden, deep breath and set down the can, lips faintly white. “Thirsty,” he muttered, a bit whiny, and pointed a bloated, stubby finger at the plastic bag. Hubert quickly reached and put the soda into his hand, which Ferdinand promptly glugged down like it was tap water and not a horrifying sugar concoction. His body seemed to relish it though, like it was life-giving.

When the soda was empty and Ferdinand was panting, Hubert comfortingly rubbed (and squished) one of Ferdinand’s rotund upper arms.

“My parents were clueless,” Ferdinand said quietly. He itched his bulging hip, then settled the bin of cookies into his lap. “They let me drink soda all day everyday, once they realized it worked as a kind of…pacifier, on me. They didn’t understand why I was getting rounder than all the other kids. I didn’t either. I just knew that the more soda and sweets I could get my chubby hands on, the better. They made me feel good. Really good.”

Ferdinand ate through the cookies one by one, or two by two. It drew attention to his face: his astonishingly heavy second chin, his fat-drowned jaw, and most of all his flabby, protruding cheeks—which had plumped out even more recently, to the point that his mouth and nose and eyes seemed smaller.

“I got big,” Ferdinand breathed as Hubert maneuvered a hand under Ferdinand’s belly and began rubbing the sizable bulge trapped in tight boxers. “I became better known for being so fat than—” He sucked in a weak breath and bucked a little against Hubert’s hand. “Than being my father’s son. My father hated that.”

He bucked again and Hubert squeezed. “Made me go on diets,” Ferdinand said, then shoved more food in his mouth. Chewed. Moaned. “I’d lose a couple pounds. Then I’d give in and—and eat so much it was hard to move.” He fell back on the bed and tugged on his clothes. Hubert helped, and soon he had both his hands occupied with both their cocks. Ferdinand lifted his head for a moment to check on Hubert’s blissful expression, seeming pleased with the effect he was having. “Every diet just made me heavier and…believe me, I could feel it. I got slower. I stopped fitting in chairs. I—”

He gave up on speech as Hubert picked up speed.

“I like you,” Hubert whispered, when it was over.

*

They made out until they fell asleep that night. Ferdinand’s stomach gurgled, and his boxers ripped a little in his sleep. Hubert breathed slow next to him, arms happily wrapped around Ferdinand’s great, squishy girth.

Although Ferdinand was packed to leave the next morning, they had exchanged numbers and emails and so many long, heated kisses that neither would possibly forget the other.


	9. Omega

Ferdinand unexpectedly presents as an omega after the war ends, and the process is rough for him. Hubert, as a friend and an alpha, takes it upon himself to help him financially and with the societal implications of it all. From afar, though: the first time he smelled Ferdinand’s pheromones, he knew too much proximity was not prudent.

But his subconscious doesn’t take proximity into account. The wet dreams he has of intimately helping Ferdinand through a heat become intense and unstoppable.

Meanwhile, Ferdinand finds himself both ecstatic at the idea of being a father someday and terrified of the change of his life’s trajectory. Most of all, he finds himself longing for Hubert in a way he’s never longed for anyone before. He wants Hubert to climb into bed with him, to whisper sweet nothings…or maybe to chastise him for becoming too dependent, too weak, languishing in his own controversy, and overindulging on those treats by the bed. Indulging and indulging…

He wants Hubert to pinch his lower belly, which was peeking out from underneath his shirt, softer and wider than it should be. “Are you one of _those_ omegas, then?” he might say.

No—he doesn’t want Hubert, his dear, longtime friend, to see his body changing like it was. He knew he giving off the wrong impression; he wasn’t one of _those_ omegas, whose bodies pushed them into fertile obesity immediately after presenting. He was just a little hungrier than normal, all the time. And the servants were too accommodating.

Nevertheless: it takes no time at all for him to grow out of his clothes. Soon, his hips protrude a little and his thighs protrude a lot; his belly develops numerous engorged rolls and his ass rips seam after seam. His arms and face round out with chub, filling past the point of sagging; he develops weighty breasts that sometimes leak when he eats.

He gets so fat so quickly that his back aches when he stands for too long. So he stops standing so much. Which, damn it all, just makes him fatter.

And the servants _still_ give him entirely too much food.


	10. The Prince Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so it seems i have a thing for someone being Destined to be fat

The Prince stared at his reflection with a worried frown. He sucked in his stomach, which loosened his richly colored shirt and vest somewhat, and turned to observe his profile. Then he relaxed his middle, and his profile expanded a few inches while his vest stretched taut one again.

“Hubert?” he called, a slight whine in his tone. Hubert emerged from the closet with a coat that matched Ferdinand’s tight attire. Ferdinand tentatively touched the base of his torso. Or rather, the belly he had been developing as of late.

“Hubert, I think—I am becoming too thick around. This is not good.”

“You look perfectly acceptable, Your Majesty.”

Ferdinand sighed and faced forward again, eyes still glued to his rounder body in the mirror. He adjusted to cup his rather bulbous hips and blushed. Hubert sighed. He supposed he shouldn’t be so surprised that Ferdinand had not noticed his own chubbiness until now. “I do _not_ look acceptable,” the Prince said. “Clearly I have been indulging in excess.” He tried sucking in his stomach again, but it made no difference. He had become plump all over. His thighs, his buttocks, his chest, his arms.

“You are royalty. You have every right to indulge,” Hubert responded evenly. He set down the coat and moved closer, putting a comforting hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder…stealing a close glimpse at the Prince’s burgeoning second chin. A result of increasingly stressful responsibilities, increasingly frequent run-ins with temptation at banquets and tea times and late strategy meetings that served endless refreshments.

Hubert stroked Ferdinand’s softer, plumper face, which seemed to ease his anxiety.

He had known that Ferdinand would eventually become heavy. Perpetual overfeeding had done in all his predecessors; in fact, not a single Von Aegir to date had reached adulthood thin-bodied. Still: Hubert hadn’t anticipated Ferdinand would start gaining weight in excess even before taking the throne. He pitied him a little; if Ferdinand’s weight was going to undergo its inevitable surges early, he might be too fat by the time of his own coronation to stand through the whole thing.

As Hubert imagined kind, earnest, oblivious Ferdinand grown too fat to stand for long, his pity turned into something else. He imagined The Prince too fat to go without his assistance for long.

Ferdinand continued to stare at himself in the mirror, twisting and turning. Oddly unable to turn his eyes from his own body.

The Prince had never been chubby before. And Hubert knew he would never be thin again.


	11. The Prince Pt. 2

Hubert watched on as servants polished the new throne one last time. It had taken several days to install, large and intricately detailed as it was, although not especially ostentatious. Today it would finally be seen by the public when their beloved King Ferdinand held court.

A small woman diligently rubbed the inner corner of seat until the muted, dark gold gleamed. Hubert once again suppressed his anticipation of his King sitting down in such a worthy throne for the first time; he did so because his anticipation was not entirely patriotic. Or professional.

A new throne was past due for a King so honorable and so unlike his predecessor—this was the official understanding. But the purest truth of the matter was that the King had become physically unable to fit.

When Ferdinand was young, the seat had dwarfed him. Upon his crowning, however, he had grown sufficiently big around for his sturdy thighs to just barely touch the armrests. As his reign commenced, that touch became a gentle press…then a harder press. Then, a bit of a squeeze. Hubert watched as Ferdinand’s cheeks went bright pink with the effort of pushing his heavy body into place on the gaudy throne’s unforgivingly flat and boxy seat. As the first couple years passed, his belly distended: first resting plump on his lap, then ample on his lap and thighs, then quite large, eventually puffing over his knees. The King dwarfed his throne.

Hubert had no intention of letting his King suffer such an unnecessary discomfort, and so he requisitioned a new symbol of rule, one wide enough for Ferdinand to continue eating as he liked.

(Such a requisition took time, however. In those last few weeks of waiting, Ferdinand’s belly had begun to overflow a bit _onto_ the armrests. Then lost the ability to sit with his back against the throne as a particularly plentiful winter led to a mighty surge in the dimensions of his arse.)

“Enough,” Hubert said. The servants stopped polishing and quickly filed out of the room. “It’s time.”

*

Greatly heavy though he was, Ferdinand entered the threshold of the throne room on his own two feet. He had yet to succumb to the temptation of being carried or wheeled, and Hubert suspected he never would, even if his weight put him to a state of reddened panting just moving from room to room. Hubert took pride in his King’s stubbornness.

But his King’s clothes were less to Hubert’s satisfaction. Today, as usual, they were rich in color and conformed not a bit to Ferdinand’s shape; like various corsets, the layers of expensive clothing smoothed out curves and tucked in bulges—and in particular, did their best in design and tailoring to minimize the impressive size of the King’s breasts. Of course, the King still appeared to anyone with eyes as triple the size of his father and more besides, but Hubert longed to see Ferdinand’s body as it was without all that…tailored propriety. Only Ferdinand’s excellently styled long hair was without flaw.

Underneath all that tucking, tightening, and sucking in, Hubert knew intimately of the incredibly soft blob Ferdinand had become.

“Beautiful,” Ferdinand said in awe, and since Hubert was the only other person in the room, he moved toward his new shiny thing unselfconsciously. Which meant Hubert got an eyeful of slow waddling instead of a highly controlled, kingly gait. Ferdinand sat down, all his clothes visibly stretching despite their fortifications against such a thing. He chuckled as he patted the many inches of seat cushion available next to his thighs. “Though I think you overestimated the width.”

In a carefully neutral tone, Hubert said, “By design, your grace.”

And, as expected, Ferdinand’s expression was carefully, willfully ignorant. “By design? How do you mean.”

“Merely allowing for any…eventualities.”

The last word was not so neutral, at least from Hubert’s perspective. Not condescending, not scolding, but—knowing. As much as he relished Ferdinand’s optimistic dismissiveness even when confronted with hints of a third chin, Hubert also had never been one for letting Ferdinand live in a bubble for long. Before Ferdinand could even scoff and ask for further explanation, Hubert added:

“Your weight has yet to stop rising in earnest, your Grace.”

Ferdinand looked away as he blushed and huffed at once. He squirmed in his throne, getting more comfortable, and it took obvious effort to do even this due to the weight in his lap and the heaviness of his own arms and legs.

“That’s incorrect,” Ferdinand said. “I have plateaued. The doctor says so.”

“Then the doctor is lying to his King. You have grown another two stone in as many moons.”

Ferdinand jerked his head to meet Hubert’s gaze. The hot defensiveness in his amber eyes told Hubert that Ferdinand was only too aware of his newest padding. “And how you would know?”

“Some members of your medical team are in fact, loyal to the oaths they take. But your current physician will be dismissed by week’s end.”

Shoulders slumping, Ferdinand visibly refrained from rolling his eyes. “Oh don’t. He knew that I was feeling sensitive.” Then quieter, “I’m…not plateauing.”

Hubert couldn’t help but approach him. Self-pity looked charming and indulgent in all the right ways on his deeply overindulged King. “Very much not.” He took Ferdinand’s hand into his. The palm and fingers had porked out so much that all his hand jewelry was being refitted, but that was no matter. Hubert was…infatuated with such things. The depth of the dimples on his knuckles. The remarkable chubbiness of his wrists. Never had Hubert suspected Ferdinand would blow up to be the fattest of his bloodline. Yet here they were.

“Do you fear for my capacity to rule?” Ferdinand said, trying for humor and failing.

“Do you?”

There was indeed a spark of fear in Ferdinand’s expression. But he smiled instead. “Yes. I fear—I fear for my capacity to fit in this new throne by the end of next year, to be terribly honest.”

Hubert calmly looked at him. Then, trusting his own spies to keep their mouths shut, lifted a knee to rest on the space next to Ferdinand’s thigh. He leaned forward, gently cupping Ferdinand’s fleshy, shiny neck. In a low voice that always made Ferdinand sigh with want, he said, “Your subjects feed you like they want nothing more than to see you outgrow this throne and the next. Considering you have done them all so well these years, can you blame their desire to make you happy in return, in the only way they know how?”

Ferdinand’s eyes were already half-lidded, his voice confessional. “All the cakes they bring. The sweets. It is far too much, and yet I cannot stop myself. Truly. I ache so badly to eat everything to the last crumb.”

Hubert pressed his forehead to his King’s for a moment, before leaning back again to enjoy the view of Ferdinand’s handsome, fat face. “I know. They know. Those in the lands beyond ours know. And they still send cake.”

Ferdinand grimaced a little. “An enemy strategy to immobilize me?”

“If that is the case,” Hubert smirked, stealing a kiss, “You can sit right here while I deal with it.”


	12. Ingredient Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same as my usual shit, but even more shameless and with rapid expansion. Also this was originally an ace attorney fic lmao.

Courthouse

Tuesday, 1:45pm

This was how it went: All in the span of a few moments, Ferdinand declared his opponent a liar, thrust a chubby finger forward in accusation, and popped a shirt button. Which set off a chain reaction of two other buttons popping off, leaving nothing but a red tie to obscure the peek of tan chest. Of plump breasts that sagged forward without so much constriction.

Two hands clasped tight over his bosom, and Ferdinand apologized for the disruption and bent over to pick up his popped buttons. It was then that there was the unmistakable sound of ripping fabric. The poor man flew upright again, blushing even redder as he redirected one hand to his heavy buttocks.

In the pen-dropping silence, Ferdinand lowered his head in defeat. Hubert, the accused opponent, felt a rare pang of pity from the other side of the courtroom. And a rarer pang of true awe. Because while he had known plenty of attorneys to gain weight after earning some measure of success, he had never had he seen a suit give out so spectacularly under the pressure of a fat owner.

“Perhaps it would be best to reconvene tomorrow,” said the Judge. “This trial is speeding along nicely, so we should have…” he glanced down at Ferdinand before very conspicuously looking at anything else. “Ample time.”

Hubert knew that Ferdinand had come to the courthouse by public transit, so he offered his fellow attorney a speedy trip to Ferdinand’s apartment to change. Ferdinand agreed to a ride home with the expected solemnity and subdued gratitude. Hubert swallowed at how awkwardly the heavy man got into, and situated in, his sleek black car. His belly was flirting with his knees, and his thighs were pressing together _very_ tight to fit in the space they had. And even then, Ferdinand’s left thigh bulged out nearly to the stick shift.

As Hubert took off out of the parking lot and onto the main road, Ferdinand rested his dimpled hands on his belly.

“Well. That was mortifying. But it’s over now.”

Hubert tried to resist glancing in Ferdinand’s direction, but the gap in Ferdinand’s shirt was like a beacon even in his periphery. Every single time the car went over a bump, he couldn’t help but notice his breasts wobble. They were affected so easily, so effortlessly. Same with the fat on his round arms and his remarkably engorged hips. Even Ferdinand’s belly, so big that it should have been still, apparently consisted of such a weak, jello-grade fattiness it jiggled at the slightest provocation.

Hubert looked back at the road. Ferdinand was talking about the case to fill the quiet and didn’t notice as Hubert let his gaze stray again to briefly fixate on his buoyant second chin. It too rippled and quivered easily.

“What are you going to do about this?” Hubert asked in a measured tone.

Ferdinand’s body jiggled heavily from another imperfection in the road, and Hubert stopped breathing for a moment. “New clothes is the simplest solution, but I’m low on funds right now.” Ferdinand wrung his hands. “I’ll…lose weight. Somehow.”

Hubert deliberately inhaled. Exhaled. “Not ‘somehow.’ You must come up with a diet and exercise plan appropriate for you needs. Or better yet, have a professional work with you.”

Ferdinand frowned and looked out the side window. “I can’t afford a professional. I just need…”

Hubert glanced his way again, recognizing the innocently lustful, slightly open-mouthed expression on Ferdinand’s face immediately. “Ferdinand. Do not indulge your…daydreams of indulging. You have indulged enough, as everyone in the courtroom saw for themselves not fifteen minutes ago.”

Ferdinand’s expression did not change much at this. Instead of replying, he bit his lip and brought a hand up to touch the the gap in his shirt. He absently brushed over the protruding, stretched fabric. Then he cupped his breast, as if judging its…substantial girth…

Hubert fought to keep his eyes on the road. “Are you listening? It’s time to take control of your weight.”

No answer, but Hubert could not risk looking in Ferdinand’s direction again to glare at him directly. The car was silent for a long half minute before Ferdinand said in a soft, resigned voice: “I didn’t meant to get big.”

He said ‘big’ so delicately and carefully, like he had spent time sounding it out in his head. Big.

Hubert grit his teeth. “Nothing you…” The car hit a snag in the road again, and Ferdinand’s body rippled in a slew of jiggles. He had to force the strength back into his voice. “Nothing you can’t reverse.”

Out of the corner over his eye, Hubert noticed Ferdinand rub curiously over the expanse of his belly. “Do you think I’m obese?”

Hubert blinked, feeling breathless again. _Astonishingly,_ he wanted to say. _You are far and away the fattest man I know._

He didn’t mean for his answer to feel so erotic in his mouth: “You’ve grown, Ferdinand.”

“I’m sorry.” Ferdinand’s grin was meek. “I’m sure I’ve embarrassed you. Who wants an arch rival who’s most famous for getting so fat he busts his clothes in court?”

“What I feel isn’t relevant. Concern yourself with a plan.”

Ferdinand adjusted himself in the seat, looking uncomfortable. “Putting some sweats on is step one. These pants are suffocating.”

_Just months ago, you would have been swimming in those clothes,_ Hubert thought. _Now you’re splitting them open._

When they arrived at the apartment complex, Ferdinand muttered little apologies as he struggled to jostle himself out the passenger door. Hubert doesn’t mention how the rip on the back of his pants had expanded to twice its original size over during the ride. His underwear was a pale blue that made Hubert think of innocence.

Because it was courteous, and because Hubert was shamefully curious as to how Ferdinand would fare with stairs (not well at _all_ ), Hubert followed him up to Ferdinand’s apartment floor.

Seeing Ferdinand so flushed, panting but trying to keep it quiet—just so weirdly _resigned_ to his nosedive in physical capability—it all caused Hubert say without thinking: “I have decided to assist you, since I believe you are in dire need of accountability.”

“Really? I guess it couldn’t hurt,” Ferdinand said between pants.

Hubert nodded, looking away from Ferdinand’s grateful eyes. “These stairs will be convenient for exercise.”

“Oh, no more stairs.”

Kitchenette

Tuesday, 2:33pm

“Hubert! We can’t waste all that food!” Ferdinand looked on in horror at the filling trashcan. He popped a few donut holes into his mouth, chewed and swallowed. “It’s not yours anyway, you can’t make this decision.” Ate a few more.

There had been treats and sweets all over the countertops. Hubert was just clearing space. “It’s for your own good. Or if it really does bothers you, I’ll take all this to the food bank or some such.” Hubert eyed the array of plastic containers. Coconut truffles. Pecan bites. Everything looked far too sugary. Brownies, eclairs, cookies, all the same brand—though only a logo was visible, no name. There was no ingredient list to be found anywhere.

“No!” Ferdinand all but ripped a box of special creme-stuffed cookies out of Hubert’s hands. “You’ll try some to see what the fuss is about. You’ll—you’ll get a taste and end up as fat as me.”

Hubert was so caught off guard by this that Ferdinand was able to take advantage—fumbling the box’s lid open and biting deeply into one of the cookies. Hubert wouldn’t have been so pissed if Ferdinand hadn’t been putting food his mouth at every damned opportunity since stepping inside.

“Stop _eating._ I have no intention of touching this junk. ” Hubert tried to steal back the box, but Ferdinand held it close, his girth acting as a shield as he moved around the kitchen and living room, consuming as much as he could before Hubert could get to him. It was when Ferdinand moaned softly into a particularly overstuffed cookie that Hubert managed to reach around and snatch the box and its remains. Ferdinand reached out weakly, then gave up and ate the rest of the sweet like a consolation prize.

They were both breathing a bit too heavily than the situation called for.

“I can’t just stop,” Ferdinand mumbled. He sucked his chubby fingers, acute longing overtaking any other emotions in his eyes. “I need it.” He closed his eyes, savoring the taste…

…and Hubert noticed Ferdinand’s bloated breasts stretch the fabric just a bit more.

Ferdinand looked down at this, then twisted around to look at his backside, where blue underwear was also visibly stretching, the hole in his pants ripping even wider. With a wince and quiet gasp, Ferdinand palmed his ass with both hands.

“What’s happening,” Hubert said in a dry, weak voice. He had taken a step forward, but halted. “Are you in pain?”

Ferdinand stumbled and leaned uneasily against the arm of his couch, rubbing both buttocks in earnest, second chin protruding at max as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, just get me another box.”

Was it just Hubert, or did his ass look like it was getting bigger and doughier the longer Ferdinand kneaded it? Surely it had not hung out _that_ fat just a minute ago. “I—”

“Just do it, Hubert!”

So Hubert did, easily finding another box of pastries in the pantry. There were nothing _but_ pastries, stacks and stacks of colorful containers. All the same brand, just like on the counters. Hubert handed Ferdinand a box of eclairs, then tentatively watched as Ferdinand flumped down on the couch, curves and rolls bulging tight against all his clothes.

“This isn’t normal,” Hubert said, but Ferdinand wasn’t listening. His eyelids were lowered; he looked drugged. Slowly, the plump fat that had rounded his face began to thicken even more right before Hubert’s eyes. His cheeks bulged and bulged with each bite of overloaded eclair. His second chin grew too. Hubert flinched as another button popped off Ferdinand’s shirt.

Then another. Another. Ferdinand’s breasts swelled heavier, his belly wider—

Then Ferdinand’s face started to get red, and he gestured to his tie. Hubert’s eyes widened as he rushed forward and began to undo it. He felt Ferdinand’s neck slowly fattened against his fingers as he did. Hubert inhaled a whiff of sweet breath.

“Sorry,” Ferdinand whispered.

Once released of his tie, Ferdinand took another greedy bite into the chocolatey dough, and a soft moan seemed to come from him involuntarily. An instant later, his flabby chest spilled halfway out of his shirt, sagging freely atop flabbier belly. Hubert could see parts of expanded nipple. The thin pink lines of stretch marks, too.

Hubert’s heart pounded hard. “Ferdinand…?” He reached to take the box away again, but Ferdinand intercepted it as he ate, pushed it against one of his breasts. He exhaled and said in a woozy voice, “It hurts when they grow. The gravity hurts.” Another bite. Ferdinand’s cheeks and second chin kept slowly puffing fatter. His breathing was very heavy. “Just hold them in place for a bit…”

Buttercream filling smeared his face. Intrusive thoughts started to fill Hubert’s mind. _Gaining weight so fast it hurts. Is he really this greedy? Crumbs everywhere. He can’t stop. Still growing. Next he’ll start oinking_.

“Please, Hubert,” Ferdinand said. “You’ve been wanting to touch me anyway, haven’t you?”

Hubert ripped his hand away and stood, only stumbling slightly. “Excuse me?”

Ferdinand lifted his nearly empty box. “Nothing. More please. More.” He cupped one of his breasts himself as he continued to gorge.

After a pause, Hubert did as he was asked—spitefully. He chose a box of plain British-style biscuits. Hubert set them on the couch carelessly and crossed his arms. He glared with the upmost condescension at the pig hunched over and stuffing himself on the couch.

Had Ferdinand really become this? Where had all his drive and motivation gone? It was as if it had all been consumed by these mysterious caloric sweets, corroded away by the dense scent of sugar in the apartment.

“Fine. Blow up as fat as you want,” Hubert said, although he wasn’t sure if Ferdinand was bothering to listen. “Make yourself too heavy to do your job. I don’t care. Go ahead and get so big you can’t even get up.”

His voice began to waver while he watched Ferdinand’s love handles ooze like white filling over his waistband, so he shut up. What kind of abhorrent recipe did this baking company use? It was as if Ferdinand was having an allergic reaction, but without the redness or rashes or disturbing puffiness in the eyes. As far as Hubert could tell, Ferdinand was genuinely…fattening out.

“I’m sorry,” Ferdinand mumbled weakly. “I’m not mocking your sexuality.” He seemed to barely refrain from taking another bite as he looked Hubert in the eye. “Maybe I’m projecting. I like you.” Then he ducked his head. A moment of silence passed. Ferdinand stuffed several biscuits into his mouth, this time more reluctantly, like he had no choice. He swallowed again. “When I didn’t look like this…when I felt like I had a chance, I kept hoping you would touch. Flirt with me. Even though I was your ‘rival’ and all.”

His stomach gurgled and Ferdinand’s belly popped the last of the buttons on his shirt, jiggle-bursting to freedom. Then fabric ripped, and Hubert’s gaze fixed on the open inseam of Ferdinand’s massive left thigh.

“You need to get changed,” he said. He held out a hand, and it took no little effort on both their parts to get Ferdinand to his feet. In minutes since he sat down, Ferdinand had gained enough weight for his belly to sag while standing, for his arm fat to droop too.

Hubert confiscated the sweets from the couch before Ferdinand could make off with them. “Go change into clothes that can handle…this.”

Ferdinand nodded. Hubert watched with open lust as Ferdinand waddled away to his bedroom, ballooned ass cheeks quivering in time with his steps.


	13. Ingredient Pt. 2

A minute passed. Two.

_Where did Ferdinand get his hands on this strange food anyway? Where did it come from?_

Hubert tapped his foot. Then he got impatient and knocked on the ajar bedroom door. “What’s keeping you?”

_Can’t reach around your belly to undo your pants?_

Hubert pressed fingers to his temples. He needed to control his thoughts.

When no response came from the room, Hubert cast propriety to the wind and opened the door. “What’s taking—”

He found Ferdinand standing by his bed, shirt off and pants undone. He was—Hubert swallowed. Thin stretch marks, thick rolls, fat-engorged breasts. Ferdinand’s huge thighs badly stretched all pant seams that hadn’t already ripped open, and his ass stuck out like a shelf. His whole body had an intense puffiness to it, skin pink as if warm and inflamed from filling so heavy so quickly.

Ferdinand was chewing.

Hubert gathered his wits and said, “You have food in here, too? Get a hold of yourself.”

Ferdinand’s eyes flew open. He winced unhappily as he covered his full mouth and gulped. “I told you. I can’t stop.”

But Hubert was determined to be the one who wouldn’t listen. He locked his eyes on Ferdinand’s baggy sweats, strewn on the other side of the bed, and snatched them up—so much fabric, he noticed. He felt like he was holding small blankets.

His attention was diverted quickly back to Ferdinand as he approached him. Ferdinand’s face, still caught up in eating some fat pastry or another, was merged entirely with his neck, which itself had grown a full ring of blubber while Hubert was outside the room. His cheeks, bulging soft and wide as could be, were at least three cherubs’ worth of round. And from the neck down he was unrecognizable.

“Pants,” Hubert commanded, shoving the sweats against Ferdinand’s belly, flushing when his hand more or less sunk in. He pulled back and shook the fabric insistently. “Now.”

Attention still on his food, Ferdinand tugged down absently with one hand on his hole-ridden work pants.

“You need _both_ hands to do it.”

Ferdinand sighed and shoved another cream-filled pastry into his mouth. Then he used his swollen hands to tug down harder. Hubert’s heart felt rather as he imagined a hummingbird’s might, as he watched; Ferdinand’s tugs were so…weak. Although his belly and arm fat and breasts and ass all jiggled and wobbled with the movement, there was almost no strength behind his effort.

“Stuck,” he said, giving up, and reached for enough pastry. He took a bite, and then another, and then stumbled back a step as his ass sagged out fatter.

Hubert took a deep breath, discarded his dignity, and moved to assist from behind in pulling down Ferdinand’s pants. But his throat only become dryer, his head fuzzier, as he realized the broken seam over Ferdinand’s ass had opened wide enough to allow Ferdinand’s ass to actively fatten out of it—effectively stranding the waistband, long unbuttoned but still intact, up around Ferdinand’s hips. Even if Ferdinand were stronger, he would have difficulty pulling down the band over the massive shelf of his ass.

As Hubert stared at this sight, Ferdinand kept eating. The food containers were endless. Part of Hubert resented this total lapse in Ferdinand’s resilient personality; part of him wanted to leave, leave Ferdinand to eat himself into a coma, fat rolls growing to overflow his bed, brake the frame in half. He would call for an ambulance or a detective or someone to deal with the issue, and Hubert would no longer be overwhelmed with an obese Ferdinand’s constant little huffs and groans and jiggles and winces.

Instead of leaving, Hubert demanded Ferdinand be still and wait while he fetched scissors.

It took little time to cut the waistband, and Ferdinand’s pants finally were tugged off with some more effort. Hubert’s effort, since Ferdinand looked so content, pushing more food into his mouth. Not as frantic as before, but not heeding falling crumbs either.

Finally the sweats could come on. Hubert didn’t feel as much shame as he thought he would, telling Ferdinand to step into one pant leg, then the other, and pulling up the stretchy material up his thighs and over his ass to cinch just under his hips. There was no surmounting Ferdinand’s overhang.

Although the cinch of the new waistband seemed gentle, the soft fat it hugged caved in several inches anyway.

Hubert’s hands…lingered there, at the tops of Ferdinand’s thighs. The man had become unbelievably wide in such a short time, and Hubert couldn’t help but marvel at the difference. Would he ever go back to how he looked before? Or was this Ferdinand now? An overeating mess, weak and waddling, addicted to gorging on food that made him gain weight so fast he had a hard time keeping his balance.

Pants on, Ferdinand finally turned, his bright, confused eyes trained on Hubert’s hands, then his face. Hubert quickly picked up the sweatshirt. “Now this,” he said. Soberness had leaked into Ferdinand’s expression, and he put on the sweatshirt himself. Hubert was too far gone to stop himself from blatantly watching Ferdinand struggle to raise his huge, flabby arms, get the fabric over himself, then tug it down. Miraculously, the sweatshirt gave his belly full coverage.

“I think the worst of the cravings are over,” Ferdinand said softly. Hubert’s eyes lingered on how the man’s neck fat overlapped the shirt collar, cushioning Ferdinand’s head so much that his chin looked half-sunk in flesh.

“The worst?” Hubert asked.

“They get real bad. I eat and eat and… swell up like this.” Ferdinand’s thighs swelled a little even as he spoke. “But eventually my body goes back. Deflates, like it’s getting over a reaction.”

“I see.”

Ferdinand blushed. “It still has to process the calories, of course. So I’m still gaining actual weight.” Blushed redder. “A lot of weight.”

Hubert realized then that while they were both embarrassed, they were equally willing to stay with the embarrassment rather than escape it. Equally interested in just letting all this play out. Hubert instinctively gave Ferdinand another once over. Already his body was starting to push the seams of his new outfit.

“But.” Ferdinand tugged at his sweatshirt, trying to smile. “It could be worse. If my body didn’t actually deflate to normal afterward, I’d be the size of this apartment.”

“Right.” Hubert wished Ferdinand would stop fidgeting with his clothing. He couldn’t take his eyes off Ferdinand’s hands, which were no longer chubby, but maximally fat. Everly appendage stuffed to its little limit, with deep dimpled knuckles. The back of his hands were smooth. Even his wrists were puffy and sagged with soft extra weight.

“Why have you not found help?” Hubert asked. “Whatever brand you’ve discovered, it isn’t…”

He couldn’t find more words as Ferdinand suddenly held his belly with both arms, hunching a bit. “Ugh—”

Another gurgle. Ferdinand’s belly filled bigger, wider, and then fell out of the bottom of the shirt with a heavy jiggle.

The front of Hubert’s own pants tightened, a _lot_. He was thankful Ferdinand was distracted. “How long does this go on?”

Ferdinand sat on the edge of his bed, narrowly missing the cardboard boxes and plastic containers littering it. The mattress sank incredibly low under him. “Too long. Sometimes hours. It’s fast at first, then slower. I just know for sure that I always wake up looking…as I should look. The immediate issue is, I don’t know if these sweats will last. I have don’t have anything bigger.” The sweatshirt rode up a couple more inches on his belly. Ferdinand tugged it down with only partial success. “See? I’ve gained so much weight; I’m too big at the _start_. Oh, these are going to get tight.”

Hubert moved closer and attempted to speak less harshly. He ached to touch the tantalizing chub peeking out the bottom of his shirt. And the way Ferdinand just let it show, let it be, for Hubert to stare at—it was as if…

Hubert sat beside him on the bed. “You said before that the growing hurts?”

Ferdinand let out an awkward chuckle and he blushed again, drawing attention to his face just in time for Hubert to see his cheeks and neck puff a little fatter. His profile was so erotically obese now that Hubert couldn’t look away even if he tried; even his eyelids seemed stuck at half-mast. He had known for a while now that Ferdinand on the heavier side was attractive to him—singularly, strikingly attractive—but this, _this_ was like the makings of a mad dream, his subconscious stretching a fleeting desire into something he’d never have the shamelessness to think up while awake. But here Ferdinand was, limbs like a balloon-animal’s, belly blanketing his thighs like a heaping scoop of pudding, head buoyed on neck fat, probably too weak and heavy at this point to stand up again. It was like the universe was mocking Hubert, mocking him for all those heady repressed feelings he’d had seeing Ferdinand truly hefty for the first time.

Hubert remembered Ferdinand as he used to look: lean, sharp, at attention. He remembered how with each subsequent trial of Ferdinand’s he attended, Ferdinand stood a little thicker behind the defense desk. Tummy soft, flank wider, and buttocks fuller. Soon Ferdinand was attending court quite chubby. Hubert found it oddly endearing. Ferdinand was less irritating to watch lecture a jury when he sported ever-rounder hips and an ever-heartier belly that made his vests strain and his buttons tug. His tubby cheeks and tubby arms made Hubert fantasize between witnesses how Ferdinand might be letting himself go in the evenings.

Finally, Hubert remembered going out of town for a few weeks and returning to the courthouse to see, dumbfounded, Ferdinand grown at least fifty pounds _heavier_. Not tubby, not endearingly chubby, but even hefty—just fat. Very overweight. Second chin and all, freckled cheeks bulging by default. Big thighs pressing together, a sagging belly doubled in size. An ass swollen out broad and bulky. A bit waddle-y when he walked.

If his long, shiny red hair hadn’t made him instantly recognizable, he might not have been instantly recognizable.

Hubert approached Ferdinand after the trial that day, complimenting him on his strategy, and it was rather quick how they became friends after that.

“Well.” Ferdinand began. He dipped his head in frustration as his breasts pushed at grey fabric, firmly enough now that his stretched nipples were visible. He didn’t even bother to hold the weight with crossed arms now, perhaps because he had gotten too fat to cross his arms or because his massive belly held up the weight well enough on its own. “It hurts, but it also feels…o-oh…” More skin revealed itself as his hips started to become more bulbous: his sweatshirt rode up more while his pants rode down. Ferdinand brushed fingers along the distending skin, and though his cheeks and ears were still flushed, his expression was different now.

His whisper was fragile, confessional. “It also can feel good.”

Maybe Hubert’s lust had become obvious, or maybe Ferdinand just wanted to be touched—either way, Ferdinand moved his hand higher, raising his shirt deliberately, meeting Hubert’s eyes tentatively. It was an invitation.

So Hubert touched. First, just his thumb, letting it gently sink into the ungodly amount of pure fat. Then he smoothed his whole palm over the skin, since there was plenty of room for it, and Ferdinand shuddered.

“That’s something, at least,” Hubert said, trying to fill the silence. But the words came out intimate. Ferdinand closed his eyes.

Hubert adjusted himself on the bed and moved his hand over the sweatshirt, over Ferdinand’s lower back, over the bumps and big curves and bulging fat rolls. Ferdinand breathed in deep and sighed. “That’s nice.”

“Touch helps with the pain?” Hubert asks.

“Uh, sure. I mean, yes. Sometimes my skin stings from stretching, but if I—if I rub it a little…” Ferdinand’s words diminished to mumbling as Hubert cupped a particularly large roll of back fat. It filled his hand completely and yet was barely firmer than putty. _Lard,_ he thought indulgently. _Goddess, you’re lardy._

“Maybe I can help,” was what he said instead.

He was all-in now, he knew. Hubert moved to sit behind Ferdinand on the bed, practically tipping into him since Ferdinand’s weight dipped the bed so steeply. He pulled off his jacket and curled up his sleeves, a logical accommodation for how very hot under the collar he was. Noticing Ferdinand’s body stretch the sweatshirt wider with another low gurgle, he pushed both hands under the fabric, reaching forward, straight for his enormous mass of bellyfat. First rubbing, then kneading. Hubert couldn’t help but grin when Ferdinand helplessly shivered again and again—but his grin was wiped away when he felt Ferdinand’s belly get heavier in his hands. Now he was the one shivering.

Ferdinand hummed nervously. “Hubert.” His abdomen clenched, causing his belly to give a heavy jiggle. “I’m getting hungry again.”

“No eating.” Hubert felt himself getting fully hard now, rubbing and kneading Ferdinand’s side-belly blubber.

And Ferdinand shivered, bit back sounds, squirmed as if that might stop the shivering, which of course made his fat quiver, made him a mess of shallow breathing and quivering lard—but Hubert didn’t let up. “I’m hungry,” Ferdinand gasped, but Hubert ignored him and moved to fondle Ferdinand’s underbelly, which was even softer and so squishy, and Ferdinand was racked with an even harder shiver than the others—a shiver that ended with a strangled gasp as his glutted ass ballooned _hugely_ , ten pounds heavier all at once, pressing hard again Hubert’s sensitive pelvis.

“Ferdinand—” Hubert sounded choked. For a beautiful second, his erection was snug in the blubber of Ferdinand’s soft ass, but he had no ethical choice but to shift back.

“Sorry! Sorry. I’m really hungry.” Ferdinand’s voice was so breathy now. He tried to turn, reach back on the bed for something to fill him, but immobility won out and he stayed in place. _“Hubert,”_ he whined. He sounded aroused, desperate. Luckily, he wasn’t noticing Hubert’s erection. His ass was so huge, Hubert wondered if one cock against it was noticeable at all.

“I wanna eat. Need to—” Ferdinand panted, tying to move his leg if the efforts of his chubby foot and calf were any indication, but his belly weighed it down too much. “Hubert, please. You—”

Hubert eyed an unopened box of those fat eclairs Ferdinand had stuffed himself with earlier. He really wouldn’t mind watching Ferdinand moan with his mouth around a few more. How much more harm could it do, at this point? “I what?”

“You made me hungry!” Ferdinand said, almost bratty now. His clenched hands seemed to want to smack the bedding, but he was too wide to reach. He just wobbled in his sudden anger. “Get over here where I can see you. I’m too— _ugh!_ ”

Hubert grins and gets off the bed, but not before taking the eclairs. They really were oversized. He stands in front of Ferdinand and only just barely stops himself from putting his hands on his hips. The less attention Ferdinand shows to Hubert’s hip-level, the better. As suspected, Ferdinand’s eyes fixate on the eclairs, held high in one hand.

“You have to agree,” Hubert said. “That this will be the last of it.”

“Please…”

“As you eat this, I’m going to dump the rest.” _You definitely can’t stop me now, can you?_ “Then you will tell me where you got this brand so I can see to it an investigation is launched. Everything about it isn’t right, from your reaction to the lack of an ingredient label, to the lack of a brand name at all.”

“Okay, just,” Ferdinand made a heart-wrenchingly weak grabby hand and Hubert gave in. He…also gave into the desire to see the man stuff the first eclair into his mouth.

It was a sight to behold. Then Hubert left the bedroom for the kitchen. There was probably junk food all over the apartment, but he’d start there.

*

The hours passed slowly, and the afternoon turned into night. Hubert found everything of the mysterious brand that he could and drove it to the dumpster the next apartment complex over, just in case. Of course, he couldn’t stop Ferdinand from buying more, but…he’d keep a close eye. If he had to, he’d bring Ferdinand regular junk food: If Ferdinand was going to get fatter regardless, at the very least Hubert could be sure he didn’t actually pop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just when i thought I couldn't write anything hornier...well


	14. Curse

Ferdinand is cursed to feel near constant hunger and arousal, one feeding into the other. To cope, he starts isolating himself; that way no one can see just how much he’s eating and masturbating just to stay sane and get work done.

When Hubert inevitably confronts Ferdinand about his isolation (carefully not mentioning Ferdinand’s much more heavyset figure), Ferdinand admits to the curse, and how it’s getting in the way of his work.

Hubert does his best to come up with rational solutions. As he does, his mind becomes dominated by a recurring erotic vision of Ferdinand—overfed and overweight, ashamed and aroused—masturbating at his desk. Arms smooshing his wide, protruding belly just to reach his cock; soft asscheeks overflowing the top of his undone pants as he squirms; heavy thighs pressing together so hard they trembled. A few crumbs on his face, a few crumbs fallen down into his tight shirt, perhaps even stuck to engorged breasts shining with sweat. Perhaps, due to the curse, his sensitive breasts leak from the rub of fabric, making Ferdinand close his eyes and pant. His chubby neck is sweaty as well…as he rubs himself off fervently, causing the desk chair to creak.


	15. College (Version 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another college au because im weak

Hubert had never liked how much taller he was than Edelgard, but he can’t get enough of the benefits of being taller than Ferdinand.

The most recent benefit Hubert discovered is being able to hold him against his body in bed—one long arm wrapped around Ferdinand’s softening torso, maybe massaging a slightly chubbier breast, while the other stayed firmly slotted between Ferdinand’s thicker thighs, forcing out more breathy sounds than Hubert could count.

They were never loud. Ferdinand would say that he didn’t want to be inconsiderate, since they were in dorms and had neighbors, but Hubert’s guess was that Ferdinand simply experienced arousal and sexual pleasure so intensely that he lost all his usual lung power when Hubert touched him. Hubert certainly liked that. He himself kept quiet for the sake of concentration, but he always had enough breath to spare for speaking to Ferdinand in a way that reduced him to trembling and shivers.

It was only 7:30pm, they both still had homework, and Ferdinand had a study group in an hour, but they had the lights off as they lay spooned together in their conjoined lofted beds, Ferdinand very willfully locked in Hubert’s arms and Hubert’s voice very low in his ear.

“You like this color, don’t you?”

He was wearing baby blue nightclothes. A color he hadn’t worn until recently—and now wore at every opportunity. Ferdinand continued rutting weakly into Hubert’s strong, possessive hand.

“Is that because you like how innocent it makes you feel? Or because you know I like how innocent it makes you look?”

Ferdinand just nodded, squirming, belly inadvertently pushing out.

“Of course, we both know you’re not innocent. You’re too greedy and spoiled to be innocent.” He took his hand away from Ferdinand’s crotch to rub his protruding belly. “Just look at you.” He pinched Ferdinand’s plump love handles too, already knowing Ferdinand didn’t hate any of this, even if it embarrassed him. “Getting so soft. A spoiled boy like you can’t handle temptation at all, can he?”

Ferdinand whimpered louder as Hubert drew more and more attention to the weight he’d put on. It wasn’t a ton, but he _had_ visibly tubbed out. Hubert thought it was sexy, even if Ferdinand seemed humbled by his perceived loss of attractiveness. But even if Ferdinand was ashamed of getting significantly pudgier, it didn’t stop him from snacking and overeating more and more often. Hubert’s heart squeezed with fondness every time Ferdinand indulged.

Ferdinand squirmed and gasped in bed as Hubert mercilessly fondled the consequences of Ferdinand’s dwindling self-control.

“Stop,” Ferdinand had said whined at one point, his voice dropping to a breathy, desperate whisper. “Stop, I—I like it too much.” But Hubert cradled Ferdinand’s chub with even more fondness, mercilessly kissing his tubby neck, holding his plumper hand, rubbing against Ferdinand’s wider ass. Ferdinand breathed through choked, aroused sounds. “Hubert, you’re making me like it too much.” Then Hubert patted Ferdinand’s lower belly with a kind of affectionate condescension, and it jiggled happily. “Hubert!”

“Like what too much?”

Ferdinand’s answer was inaudible.

“Hmm?”

“You know. Getting…heavier,” Ferdinand mumbles. Shame suddenly floods his voice. “I’m already too big. Can you just…maybe less with the teasing, I don’t know.”

Ferdinand rolled onto his back at the same moment Hubert sat up. Hubert tried to look him in the eye, but Ferdinand was uncomfortable and avoidant now.

“You want me to tease you less.”

Ferdinand shrugged, swallowing.

“About how soft…” Hubert brushed the back of his hand over Ferdinand’s chubbier cheek. “And how spoiled…” He rubbed the round bulge of Ferdinand’s left love handle. “You are?”

Ferdinand let out a wavering sigh; his face flushed darker. He spoke again in that confessional near-whisper: “I’m gaining too much weight. I need to stop, but—” His thick legs squirm as Hubert slides up his shirt and traces a finger around Ferdinand’s deeper belly button reverentially. “But…”

Hubert understood fine; he just adored seeing Ferdinand pant and squirm. “But there’s a part of you,” he said. He filled his hand with the swell of chub beneath the bellybutton. “Telling you to eat.” Ferdinand sucked in a breath. “Urging you to let go and outgrow your clothes. Like a siren song?”

Ferdinand huffed, melting under a couple more kisses. “I’m telling you to stop singing.”

Hubert leaned forward and grinned against his ear. “But I was planning to bring you _so_ much food tonight.”

“Hubert, no,” Ferdinand says in that _yes_ voice of his.

“Because I know you’ll eat it all a grow a little flabbier.” He pinched Ferdinand’s fat again.

 _“No.”_ He turned on his side again and tried to hide his face, double chin puffing out.

Hubert chuckled went back to spooning Ferdinand’s lovely, overfed body. He held the bottom of Ferdinand’s belly with both hands. “I know how hard it makes when I hold you like this. You like how I can feel every inch of how you’re starting to blimp up. Swelling wide and fat-bottomed like a careless, lollypop-sucking boy. I bet you’re craving candy right now.”

“I don’t wanna get any bigger,” Ferdinand whined, rutting against him.

“Then stop stretching your seams.” Hubert kissed his chubbier jawline. “Stop eating like a little pig. Stop drooling every time I mention feeding you.” Ferdinand is breathing hard. Hubert is touching his crotch, but through his clothes. Ferdinand was harder than Hubert was. It was like this every time, though; it was really no revelation at all that it made Ferdinand feel a very certain way, getting chubbier than chubby…

Hubert told him, “Stop fantasizing about how fat you’re gonna be at graduation.”

Ferdinand came.

Then Hubert got himself off to the fact that Ferdinand climaxed being teased about his weight.

They just breathed for a while. Then Ferdinand, turning over a little clumsily due to fatigue or being heavy or both, spoke again.

“Tell me. How fat.”

*

Things changed over the next three months. Too quickly, their sex life spiraled into an intense push-pull of praise and shaming, begging and denying. Ferdinand’s rising weight was constantly on Hubert’s mind, and Hubert suspected Ferdinand was faring no better—and maybe faring worse, because it wasn’t long before eating itself started to turn Ferdinand on, as if anticipating his own weight gain took nothing more than a hair trigger, a bite into something sweet. One night in bed, Ferdinand confessed to getting so aroused during class that day just thinking about the extra brownie he’d tucked in his pocket before leaving the dining hall (where he’d eaten lunch for four), that he escaped to the restroom and ate it in a stall while he touched himself.

Hubert got aroused, thinking about Ferdinand accidentally arousing himself on the daily. It made him ravenous, watching Ferdinand eat. So it became a new habit when they were in their dorm, for Hubert to start teasing and touching even as Ferdinand snacked on things he wasn’t hungry for. This rapidly evolved to Ferdinand eating in bed as he was pleasured…which evolved to sex as Ferdinand binged, stuffing himself with greedy desperation.

Over the next three months, Ferdinand gained twenty eight pounds.

Sometimes Ferdinand would just stand on the scale, or get off and stand back on again and again, muttering anxious words to himself, holding his belly or gauging the girth of his ass with his hands, getting erect more often than not. Sometimes he would announce in his best this-is-a-serious-matter tone, “I absolutely have to diet,” or “Hubert, I’m getting _really_ overweight” or, pushing a hand through his longer hair, “This can’t be healthy…”

And Hubert would just say, “What do you want for dinner?” and Ferdinand’s momentary resolve would fade, and by the evening they’d be watching reruns of a television show, takeout containers on the floor, Ferdinand eating his way through a big tube of a cookie dough while Hubert absently fondled his blubbery belly. They’d have sex again before falling asleep, and they don’t bother trying to keep Ferdinand’s weight out of it for once. They just exchanged breathy comments as they pushed themselves, sleepy but horny, through the act.

“Want to know what I’ve noticed?”

“Yes,” Ferdinand said.

“You’ve gotten lazier. You avoid standing whenever you can. You’re always asking me to fetch you things. You barely go out anymore, except to the dining hall.”

Ferdinand squirmed. He liked it. “What else.”

“Well, when you do get out of bed, you walk differently. You waddle a little now, like a fatty. You’re starting to breathe like a fatty, too. Louder.”

“Because I’m so heavy…”

“Chairs and beds are starting to creak so loud under you. Do you even notice?”

“Always. And—and have you noticed…?”

“Hmm?”

“That I…shake…”

“Jiggle?”

Ferdinand made an exasperated sound, but his expression was clearly embarrassed. “Because I eat so unhealthy, I guess. It happens _all_ the time, and I can’t stop it. Can’t stand up, can’t turn, can’t—can’t take a step without feeling myself shake…”

“Jiggle,” Hubert corrected. “Yes, I’ve noticed how your fat wobbles around as easy as you breathe, even in tight clothes. When you’re peppy in the morning, moving a little quicker than usual and soft because you haven’t stuffed yourself yet, you jiggle so badly I can barely look at you without palming my pants.”

Hubert kisses him as Ferdinand comes close to climaxing for the second time that night.

*

It went without saying that the blue pajamas were retired to a storage box. But one evening Hubert had little to do—final exams were nearly done—and got them out. He tried to imagine Ferdinand wearing them now. Ferdinand, who by now had blown up so fat that his thick double chin was permanent, his hips brushed their narrow doorframe when he entered, and his lowermost belly drooped like plump pizza dough over the front of his pants. Of course, the pajamas may not fit at all, but the material was somewhat stretchy, and they had been a bit loose when Ferdinand was still an average weight.

He stares at the pajamas for a long time, reminiscing how Ferdinand had grown into them over time, blue fabric tightening around his swelling body, the buttons ever so slowly straining as Ferdinand’s waist and hips got girthy and his belly and breasts protruded farther out. breasts. Ferdinand had given up on the pants first, though, complaining about the waistband digging into him.

Now, Hubert imagined the waistband might not make it to his hips at all, given how breathtakingly large Ferdinand’s ass had become.

Ferdinand got back to the dorm with a flushed face and damp underarms. With the nutritional quality of his meals steeply dropping as his cravings for junk skyrocketed, Ferdinand’s daily stamina had begun to suffer as well. Hubert noticed how Ferdinand hardly took a breath between arriving and sitting down at his desk chair, quietly catching his breath as he said, “Did well on that test today, I think.”

Hubert gaze languished over how Ferdinand was fat enough to smother the chair seat. Sadly, the university was too cheap to have chairs with arm rests on them, but he was content enough.

“Did you rush back just to tell me that?” Hubert teased.

Ferdinand gave him a questioning look. “No. The weather was nice out, so I actually took the scenic route back here, through the gardens.”

“Oh.” Hubert held back a smirk. “You were breathing hard and were so quick to sit down, I just assumed.” He was stupidly enamored by Ferdinand’s little head cock, which proceeded realization in his eyes, and then a cute blush. A cute blush that turned into—once Ferdinand seemed to think on Hubert’s statement—became a deeper red flush that affected his ears and second chin.

He let out a sigh. Then closed his eyes.

Hubert hesitated. “I’m sorry.” There had been more periods where Ferdinand disliked teasing…but then still more others where Ferdinand couldn’t get enough of it. As if being teased for blowing up into a waddling mess of fat rolls and sugar cravings was as deeply arousing as the rat roll and sugar cravings themselves.

“I ate a salad at the dining hall after the test.” Ferdinand mumbled. “And then I left. I left without eating anything else.”

“Oh…”

“I was so proud of myself.” Ferdinand gave him a thorough, searching look. His voice wasn’t so much anguished as it was frustrated. “And then I come back here, and you take one look at me and get hard because I’m winded and sweaty from weeks of eating like a pig. _Multiple_ pigs.” Ferdinand’s voice became melodramatic as he gestured helplessly. “And now I all I want to do is eat for you. Thanks, Hubert.”

Huber purses his lips and wants to feel bad for ruining—with the impressive relentlessness of his desire, apparently?—Ferdinand’s meager attempt at healthy eating, but. He nods his head over to the bed. Ferdinand gets to his fat feet and lies down there, Hubert quick to lean over him.

“Just a salad isn’t enough.”

Ferdinand whispers in a tumble of words, “I want you to feed me so much so fast you almost choke me.”


End file.
